


The Wind Off the Sea

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Year of Quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 21:58:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17211575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Charlotte was not the first woman Jack had stepped out with in the months since Phryne’s message not to follow her, but she was the first he’d brought around to the ragtag family he’d found himself a part of and that was, perhaps, why it stung so much when it ended shortly after.





	The Wind Off the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [For Good](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321274) by [Sarahtoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo). 



> Right, so back for Whumptober Sarahtoo wrote a lovely fic, [For Good](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321274) for the prompt self-sacrifice. Various fix-it ideas were discussed, and aurora_australis wrote [For the Better](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16346129) and everyone was appeased. I was most of the way through writing a different take on the fix-it, based off on the October Year of Quotes prompt “Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.”, but honestly I loved hers so much and I had so many other things to finish that I just... didn't. But I realised the other day that October was the only month I missed for the challenge, so I spit-and-polished this as quickly as possible, if only so I could say I did every month. 🙄 Still, it's done and my need for completion is appeased. 
> 
> And remember, if you're interested in participating in next year's challenge, follow [Miss Fisher Challenges](https://missfisherchallenges.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr. The theme is Phryne's Journey, and I'm hoping it will be a lot of fun for everyone! ♥

_“Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.”_

* * *

 

Charlotte was not the first woman Jack had stepped out with in the months since Phryne’s message not to follow her, but she was the first he’d brought around to the ragtag family he’d found himself a part of and that was, perhaps, why it stung so much when it ended shortly after. In hindsight he wasn’t entirely certain why he had brought her in the first place, except that he was _trying_ and he was tired and she was a lovely woman. Just not… compatible.

He told himself that it was not her inability to stand up to the memory of Phryne Fisher, and for the most part he believed it—he was older than he’d been the first time, knew his mind better. A life of marriage and children and every evening spent quietly by the fire was no longer for him, if it ever truly had been. The end of the relationship had been mutual, logical, amicable. But Phryne’s shadow was never entirely gone, and he knew that too.

He understood her request, had respected it. As much as he was not made for a domestic life, his wanderlust was not the same as hers—in Melbourne they would have found some middle ground, they had both wanted to find some middle ground, but at the moment middle ground was somewhere over the Indian Ocean. Still, he missed her: not just as the lover she’d never been, but as a friend, a colleague, a confidante. A quiet balm and a whirlwind of adventure, for a man who sometimes needed both.

A few weeks after the Incident With Charlotte, he found Mac in the morgue looking particularly contemplative.

“Poison?” he asked, gesturing to their corpse.

“His heart,” she said, distracted. “For now, I think it’s natural.”

Jack nodded, dismissed his constable. Looked over the body himself, certain Mac had missed nothing but needing something to do while he waited. Clearly she had something else on her mind.

“I had a telephone call,” she finally said. “From England.” She snorted. “Trust Phryne to be at the forefront of that development.”

“She’s well?”

“She’s Phryne.”

“Needed your medical expertise when a man dropped dead in front of her?” he asked, aiming for casual and failing miserably; he wanted to know that she was happy, but the idea of her investigating elsewhere still twisted in his gut. Thankfully Mac seemed to understand his dilemma.

“She asked after you,” she said flatly. “Whether you were eating, whether you were mad at her fickleness, whether I anticipated wedding bells in the near future.”

“You told her about Charlotte.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I did. It was terribly inconvenient of you to call an end to things after I’d sent the letter off, I never would have put her through that without reason.”

“Through…?”

There was a small spark in him, hope he had no intention of fanning into flames. There were good reasons for their dilemma, honour and duty and her capacity to care. He would hate to think her miserable, and that spark was his ugliest impulses. _Tell me she loves me, that she wants me, that I could mean that much to her._ It wouldn’t change things.

“You’re not a stupid man, inspector,” Mac said, her gaze level but not cruel. “I’m quite certain I don’t have to spell it out, but just in case you truly are that male: Phryne is noble, but it is very rare she doesn’t get what she wants. If I’d known you were intending to end things with your paramour, I would never have reminded her. I thought I was doing the right thing. From the tone of her voice, I’m not sure I was.”

Ignition.

———

He wrote her a letter, the words awkwardly stilted by all he did not say, explaining that an old army friend had invited Jack to visit him in Yorkshire, had in fact been inviting him for years, and he had the leave available. How he had always planned to see the moors, planned to travel but never had the time. (That her command to come after her had reignited that desire, the promise of a whole world undeniable after a year in her presence, was left unmentioned.) That he would be passing through London on his journey northward and on his return, and that he would be pleased to renew their acquaintance if she was available. Left his contact details in Yorkshire if she wanted to arrange something. Sent it a few weeks ahead of his ship, tried not to hope for more.

To see her again, to spend an evening over whiskeys and talking… it would be enough. Or not enough, never _enough_ , but more than he had dared to hope for. He wondered how he could part from her again, knowing what he knew now, but missing her friendship too much to deny himself. If she wanted to. Perhaps it would be best avoided; he knew her well enough to know it had not been an easy decision for her, to clip her wings even slightly. If seeing him again would bring more pain than pleasure… he would never want that. But still he hoped.

Weeks onboard a ship did nothing to settle him on any one course of action, except a determination to embrace the travel for what it was and not dwell on what might have been, and his arrival at the docks of London found him still considering it all. It was a puzzle without the pieces to solve it, but it distracted his mind as he descended the ship, looking for directions to the train station.

He almost missed her standing there, resplendent in a fur-trimmed coat of silver blue.

“Jack!”

He turned before his mind had processed the familiar greeting, saw her standing several feet away with a smile that was almost, if she’d been anyone but Phryne Fisher, tremulous.

“Miss Fisher! How are—I mean, that is—”

Silence. She leant forward, as if to move closer but frozen on the spot; he recognised the feeling. The crowd around them surged, loud and erratic, but all he could remember was their last meeting, steps away until they weren’t.

“Where are your bags?”

“Pardon?”

She rolled her eyes. “Your bags, Jack. I’ve telephoned your friend, explained that I would drive you up. Unless you’d rather take the train.”

“You don’t have to do that, Miss Fisher.”

His words were automatic, not wanting to be an obligation, but he saw the glimpse of disappointment in her gaze, and it propelled his feet closer. His hand reached for her elbow and then pulled away before making contact. He sighed, tried to find neutral ground, wondered whether her mouth beneath his would feel the way it did in his dreams. Wondered if this might all be a mistake.

“I don’t recall mentioning my ship in my letter,” he finally said, curiosity and confusion and just a little amusement lacing his voice; she laughed and shook her head, the Phryne he remembered once more.

“I must have asked the right questions,” she said.

He felt a smile fight to escape the corner of his lips.

“Which were?”

“Oh, just the usual,” she said flippantly. “What ships were due from Australia, can I see the passenger list, that sort of thing.”

“Ahh, questions befitting a detective.”

“Yes. But there was one I couldn’t find the answer to, because the only one who could answer it was you.”

Dirty, rotten hope burned through him.

“Which was?”

She was still frozen in place, but her eyes met his with absolute resolution.

“Do you still care for me?”

He kissed her. He stepped forward and kissed her with every ounce of longing, every bit of hope and love and desire, every damn moment they had been apart. And she kissed him back, wild and unapologetic and delighted beyond belief. Then they pulled away, their chests heaving in tandem.

“How will we—”

“I don’t know.”

“And what about—”

“We will. Somehow.”

“And—”

“Miss Fisher, right now I _do not care_.”

A look of utter delight swept across her features, and he kissed her again.

“One question then,” she murmured against his mouth, her fingers nudging his hat as they came to lace around his neck to hold him close. “Motorcar or train?”


End file.
